Page 110 of Stranger to Love

The drive was a nightmare of blurred streetlights. I shifted in my seat, my left leg jittering at a frantic pace. I felt a deep, acidic nausea born from pure dread.

Carrie didn't try to fill the silence with empty platitudes. Instead, she reached across the centre console and took my hand. Her grip was steady, cool, and dry against my shaking fingers. She laced her fingers with mine, pinning my hand to her thigh, anchoring me.

"Breathe, Alex," she said quietly, her eyes never leaving the road. "Deep breaths. We’re five minutes away."

I looked down at our joined hands, the contrast striking—the remains of my date makeup, the skirt I'd worn to impress her, and her expensive dress, all heading toward the fluorescent-lit reality of a hospital ward.

"I can't lose her, Carrie," I whispered, a single tear escaping.

Carrie’s thumb stroked the back of my hand with rhythmic, grounding pressure. "We aren't going there to lose her, darling. We’re going there to be with her. Focus on that."

Chapter 25

Alex

The hospital was a blur of sterile white tile and the low hum of machinery. I was practically dragging Carrie along, my eyes darting from sign to sign, but the words were just jumbled letters. My brain was misfiring.

Carrie’s grip on my hand tightened, pulling me to an abrupt halt. "Alex. Stop. Look at me." Her voice was a cool splash of water on a burn. "Which ward? Which room?"

"Ward C... room 402. I think," I stammered, my mind going blank.

Carrie scanned the directory above us with clinical efficiency. "This way." She didn't just walk; she commanded the hallway.

We reached the locked double doors of Ward C. I jammed my finger into the intercom button. A nurse appeared on the other side, moving with a lethargic pace that made me want to scream. She cracked the door open just a fraction.

"I’m here to see my mum," I blurted. "Karen Fischer. Room 402."

The nurse checked her clipboard. "It’s immediate family only on the ward at this time of night. Anyone else will have to wait in the main lobby until visiting hours at 10:00 a.m."

"I am immediate family! And she—" I gestured at Carrie, my voice rising in panic. "She’s with me. I need her."

"Rules are rules, sweetheart," the nurse said, her expression stony as she began pulling the door shut.

My composure crumbled, but Carrie stepped forward. She didn't get frantic. She simply shifted her weight, her posture radiating an intensity that made the nurse straighten up. Lowering her voice into that terrifyingly calm, academic authority, Carrie stepped into the woman's personal space. I didn’t hear every word—something about professional courtesy, patient advocacy, and family representation—but her gaze was so absolute that the nurse stammered and stepped back, holding the door open.

"Thank you," Carrie said with a sharp nod, her hand firm on my back as she guided me onto the ward.

We reached Room 402, and I pushed the door open. My dad was standing by the window, looking smaller and more exhausted than I'd ever seen him.

"Lex," he breathed.

I moved past him straight to the bed. My mum looked tiny against the stark white sheets, sleeping heavily beneath an oxygen mask that fogged with every shallow breath. I sank onto the edge of a plastic chair, my hand hovering over hers, terrified she might break.

"She’s stable," Dad said, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder.

I finally reached out and took Mum’s hand. The "date" version of me completely evaporated.

My dad looked up at Carrie. “Thank you, Caroline. For getting her here.”

"You don't need to thank me, Phil," Carrie said softly from the shadows.

The room fell into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic hiss of the oxygen. Dad sat back down, burying his face in his hands. Carrie moved silently across the room, speaking to him in a low, soothing tone, asking if he needed water. My lecturer, the woman who had kissed me breathless over a car console minutes ago, was now acting as the calmest, most capable person in my family's crisis.

The heavy door groaned open. A young nurse pushed a blue, sterile leather recliner into the room, followed by the rhythmic click of Carrie’s heels. She had a look of slight, sharp annoyance that usually meant someone was about to get a verbal flaying.

The nurse reappeared, breathless, pushing a second recliner into the room.

Carrie stepped over to us. “Phil.”